


Play With Me

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Come Eating, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-31
Updated: 2006-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is bored and needs to be entertained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play With Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is PWP. Such unrepentant PWP, OMG. I was getting a little worried my pron-fu had gone and died and then today it got up off the couch, put on the date lingerie and came to visit. This is for shadow_walker3, with many and grateful thanks to the inestimable exsequar and mona1347.

"Sam," Dean says.

Sam sighs. It's raining and Dean is bored. A bored Dean is an annoying Dean, one who interrupts roughly every three minutes when Sam is trying to wade through old, boring property records. He looks up, impatient words crowding to his lips. Then he gets a good look at what Dean's doing and Sam stills, one hand poised over the laptop keyboard.

Sprawled out in the room's armchair, fly unzipped and parted, Dean slides his hand slow and deliberate over his hardened cock, thumb circling the smooth wet head. His eyes are dark, intent, focused entirely on Sam. Dean licks his lips, leaving his mouth shiny and pink.

Sam swallows. His throat is suddenly dry, his complaint forgotten. It's unfair that Dean can do this to him—take him from annoyed to fuckable in no time flat, his cock hard and protesting its confinement behind the placket of his jeans. "Well, why didn't you say so?" Sam manages, his voice coming out deep and half-strangled. He pushes the chair back and shifts his weight.

"No," Dean says, just before Sam lifts his butt from the chair. "Don't get up. Stay there." His head tips back a little bit as his hand makes another slow slip-slide up and down the smooth line of his shaft. His eyes are only glittering crescents beneath long sandy lashes. "Watch." He wets his lips again and Sam groans softly. "I want you to just…watch."

"Dean—" His name rasps in Sam's throat.

"Don't." Dean's panting a little, his eyes so hot Sam thinks he might catch fire. "Open up your jeans. Take your dick out. C'mon. Play with me."

"Oh fuck." Sam's breath hisses out of him. "Dean…"

"We've got nothing to do until tonight." Dean spreads his legs wider, shifting one over the arm of the chair while his fingers never stop moving. The tip of his cock has swollen just in the time Sam's been watching, darkening and glistening with pre-come. Sam can _hear_ the slick sound of the friction, wet and silken. "Hours yet. Look what you're doing to me. How hard I am. S'your fault. C'mon, Sammy…" Dean rolls his hips, biting his lip. "Just let me see you. Just take it out."

Sam can't even get the words out. He loves the sight of Dean at any time; everyone knows Dean is too pretty for words, including Dean himself. But it's different, it's _more_ , when it's _that_ look—needy, hungry, feral—and Sam knows he's the only one to see it. Because he's the only one who can put it there. Fumbling, Sam nudges the button out of the eye, unzips his jeans, shoving them apart and down.

"Yeah," Dean agrees hoarsely. "Yeah. C'mon. You hard yet, Sammy?"

"Getting there." Sam can't decide between watching the helpless spurting shudders of Dean's cock or Dean's teeth worrying the soft, full line of his lip. Either one is enough to lift his dick from the nest of his pubic hair, arcing up to meet his hand.

"Because of me?" Dean's heel is digging into the ratty footstool, his hips shaking. "Is it…? Are you hard because of me?"

Sam swallows again. A part of him would like to just…close his eyes and let Dean's voice—rusty, scraped out and yet somehow velvety—wash over him as he strokes himself, thrusting into his own callused fingers. The rest of him would prop his eyelids open with toothpicks to watch this; watch Dean's face melt and soften even as the rest of his body stiffens and goes rigid with tension. "You know I am." The ball of Sam's thumb slips around the ridge, a delicious combination of smooth and rough.

"Tell me."

It feels like there's not enough air in the room, like what air is there is thick and superheated, inadequate to breathe. "Fuck, Dean…"

"You look so goddamn pretty." Dean takes a breath that sounds like paper tearing. "You're not a pretty guy, but when you're like that, with your dick all hard and curving up towards your belly? When you're all wet and slick and you make that noise—" Sam keens softly, "—yeah, that one, in the back of your throat and you're touching yourself like that, it's all I can fucking do not to come all over myself because all I can think is how fucking pretty you are…"

"Dean—" Sam's voice is faint. His cock _hurts_ he's so hard and he twists on the upstroke, the combination of pleasure/pain just like the teasing dance of Dean's fucked out soliloquy over his nerve endings.

"Harder," Dean whispers. There's blood beaded up on his lip, crimson against candyfloss and his thighs are shaking a little as he spreads his legs wider. Sam obliges, closing his fingers tighter, lengthening the stroke.

He realizes he and Dean have fallen into the same pattern, synchronous, only the twist at the end a little different. Dean likes to have his head toyed with, the slit stroked—or better, tongued—while Sam likes a thumb—or tongue—driven against the nerve bundle on the underside. Fuck. _Fuck._ He needs to come. He needs to come _right now_. "Faster," he gasps in return. He can feel sweat trickling down the sides of his face, the back of his neck, pooling at his spine.

"Talk to me," Dean answers. "Tell me… _shit_ …tell me what you want."

Heat stokes higher in Sam's throat, his face, his lower belly. Dean's much better at this than he is.

Dean groans and the sound….fuck. That sound. "C'mon Sammy. Get me there. Please. I just… I don't care if you read the damn newspaper, just… Just talk to me. Let me hear you. Let me hear you break."

Oh _hell_. Sam's hips jitter, bucking up and into his fist. "You're insane, you know that?" he asks, croaking it out past the desert of his mouth. "You drive me fucking nuts." Dean makes a noise somewhere between whimper and moan and his hand moves faster. Dean's cock looks angry, blood red and leaking pre-come in an almost steady stream. The sound of his hand against the warm, firm skin is moist and the whole room stinks of sex. "I'm trying to work and who the fuck can work with you playing with your pen all the time, licking the tip like it's my cock or smiling that stupid ass smile and all I can think about is being in your throat and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you for doing this to me, for turning my brain to mush and making me so fucking hard I can't breathe and _cockteasing_ me from across the room, you bastard, when I'd much rather it was your hand on me…"

Dean's whole body arches up and back as he cries out, spasming in milky, messy splatters and gouts all over himself—chest, belly, hands, legs—his clothes, the chair, even the carpet. Sam's so busy watching Dean, he doesn't expect it when his own orgasm slams up from the bottoms of his toes, down and through his entire body until he goes blind, deaf and stupid, his free hand locked on the edge of the table in a death grip. It feels like it goes on forever and Sam wishes it would never stop, right up against the line between pleasure and pain as it peaks.

He's coming down, coming back to himself when he feels Dean's weight settle over his thighs. Sam opens his eyes just as Dean kisses him, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other roaming Sam's chest and crotch, smearing come all over his clothes and skin. Dean pushes his fingers into the kiss, until they're sharing the taste between them. Sam whimpers, gripping Dean's ass and dragging him closer.

"You're going to be the death of me," Sam gasps finally, when they come up for air. "Or I'm going to kill you, fucking you through the mattress." He pauses. "In a minute. When I can move again."

Dean's grin is cocky, bordering on infuriating as he grinds. "Yeah, but either way, even you have to admit it's a hell of a way to go."


End file.
